


Take All Of Me

by hilaryfaye



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Dom/sub, Light Bondage, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2889422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilaryfaye/pseuds/hilaryfaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harasawa Katsunori is fast burning his way through a sizable inheritance--and money is to Imayoshi what blood in the water is to sharks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take All Of Me

Harasawa Katsunori was, by his siblings’ estimations, beyond saving.

Really, they’d been worried about their youngest brother for years—but the death of their father, and the not inconsiderable inheritance he had left behind, seemed to have put the final blow to what little self-control Katsunori had had.

Whether out of favoritism or some misplaced belief that Katsunori would need it most, their father had given him the largest share of the inheritance, and older brother and sister both felt as if they were spectators to a drawn-out plane crash, waiting to see how much carnage would come of it.

#

For himself, Katsunori was much more concerned with the whiskey in front of him than the opinions of his older brother and sister.

It was his favorite bar—nice enough in décor to not raise be considered seedy, but not so nice as to be stuffy. And the whiskey, he swore, was the best anywhere—though that might have been more to do with the amount they were willing to serve him than the actual quality of the thing.

He was so concerned with his drink, in fact, that Harasawa did not at first notice the young man watching him from a few seats down. He only noticed him at all because the bartender informed him that the young man had offered to pay for his next drink.

He couldn’t have been much older than a university student, with a smile as sharp as glass. When Harasawa looked his way, he rose and slid into the seat next to Harasawa, his voice almost hypnotic. “Mind if I join you?”

Harasawa wouldn’t have minded if the kid kicked him to the floor right there. “What’s your name?”

“Imayoshi Shouichi,” he purred. “And you?”

Did they talk about anything, after that? Harasawa couldn’t remember. What he remembered, quite clearly, was the smell of Imayoshi when he leaned in to say something over the noise of the bar, a faint whisper of cologne and tobacco, the stirring of the air. He remembered that smirk, the brush of Imayoshi’s fingers on his wrist, and the way his pulse jolted at the touch.

“Can I have a cigarette?” Imayoshi asked, smiling. “I’m afraid I’m out.”

Harasawa was more than happy to give him one—and light it for him. Imayoshi never once took his eyes off Harasawa as he smoked, it was a little unsettling, and yet, not unpleasant.

Harasawa vaguely remembered offering to take Imayoshi home with him. Imayoshi smiled. “No. Not tonight.” He stood, putting his half-finished cigarette to Harasawa’s lips. “But I’ll call you.”

Harasawa didn’t have time to wonder how Imayoshi knew his number.

#

Harasawa might have thought he’d dreamed the whole thing, if he hadn’t woken up some time late in the day to a voicemail. “Wear black tonight. Be at the bar at seven, if you want to see me.” No name, but Harasawa wouldn’t forget that voice, no matter how much he drank.

He stared at his phone, sober enough to wonder who the _fuck_ this kid was, thinking he could just make demands of him like that. They didn’t even fucking _know_ each other.

That didn’t stop him from pulling a black shirt out of his closet.

He did think to text Imayoshi. _How the fuck did you get this number?_

Imayoshi never answered.

#

Harasawa had the vague idea that Imayoshi was making him dance like a marionette, pulling invisible strings with a word, a hint of that smirk. When had he sat that close? Harasawa could smell his cologne again, and when Imayoshi turned to say something to the bartender, he was dizzied by the hand that came to rest on his thigh.

“We could get out of here,” Imayoshi said, fingertips tracing circles on Harasawa’s slacks. “If you’re willing to listen to orders.”

Harasawa did not have to be told twice. If his driver was surprised by the much younger Imayoshi, Harasawa didn’t pay him any attention—he was struck by the casual way Imayoshi sat in his car, as if Harasawa were the guest, and not him. He was aware, also, of the fingers tracing long, lazy paths up his thigh, toying with him, torturing him.

“How did you get my phone number?”

Imayoshi smiled, apparently more interested in the car than in Harasawa. “Asked around.”

It wasn’t really an answer, and Harasawa didn’t really care.

Imayoshi sized up the house when they got to it, and smiled like a cat with a sparrow in its claws. “What do you do, Harasawa-san?”

Harasawa mumbled some half-assed answer about his inheritance, and Imayoshi’s eyes sparked. “Do you have a cigarette?”

Harasawa was beginning to suspect that Imayoshi simply never carried them, because he didn’t have to. He lit Imayoshi’s cigarette, the flare of the lighter dancing in reflection in Imayoshi’s glasses.

A stream of smoke into the air. Imayoshi looked at Harasawa, and smiled. “Are you always this obedient?”

If this was a game, Harasawa had the sense he was way past the point of no return. “I can be.”

There it was again, the smile that cut right through Harasawa, made him want to sink to his knees and blow this annoying bastard right there on the front steps.

“Best get inside, then,” Imayoshi said, with a look like a dare.

Harasawa opened the door, let Imayoshi go in first. He felt almost dizzy with it.

Imayoshi walked through the entrance hall, looking around, inspecting everything as if he owned the place.

“What do you do?” Harasawa asked.

“I make investments,” Imayoshi said, with the air of someone who was humoring a person beneath them. “Profitable ones.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, and put it out on the tiled floor, grinding his heel down on the half-finished cigarette. “Where’s the bedroom?”

#

Imayoshi lit a new cigarette, looking Harasawa up and down. “Get on your knees.”

Harasawa sank, his eyes fastened on the buckle of Imayoshi’s belt. Imayoshi lifted a shoe and pressed it into Harasawa’s shoulder, pushing him onto his back on the floor. The leather smelled new, polished. Imayoshi traced the toe of his shoe down Harasawa’s shirt, down to the front of his pants. It was humiliating, how hard he already was, the sole Imayoshi’s shoe pressing down on his cock.

Imayoshi smiled through a cloud of smoke. “This is what you want more than anything, isn’t it? To be the same as the dirt under someone’s shoe.” He rocked his heel against Harasawa’s groin, grinning. Harasawa groaned, and hated himself for doing it. Hated the smile on Imayoshi’s face, hated the way he was smoking his way through all of Harasawa’s cigarettes.

He hated even more the sense of disappointment when Imayoshi pulled his foot away, stepping back to sink into a chair, leaving the cigarette to smolder in the ashtray. “Get over here.”

Harasawa started to get up, but—“Did I tell you that you could stand?”

Harasawa stared at him, and after a moment, crawled to Imayoshi on his hands and knees. Imayoshi sat knees apart, watching Harasawa so intently he was sure Imayoshi could tell how very much Harasawa wanted to have his cock in his mouth. Harasawa sat back on his heels in front of Imayoshi, lips parted, ready to answer any command.

Imayoshi ran a thumb along Harasawa’s bottom lip, and Harasawa took it into his mouth without a thought, biting just a bit. He resented the way Imayoshi smirked at him, pressing his thumb deeper into Harasawa’s mouth.

Imayoshi drew his hand away and rubbed his thumb against Harasawa’s shirt, looking thoughtful.

“Let me suck your cock.”

Imayoshi raised an eyebrow, and chuckled. “No.”

Harasawa’s breath hissed through his teeth. He wasn’t used to being told no. “Why?”

“You haven’t earned it.” Imayoshi sat back, regarding Harasawa. “Get up. Get undressed. Slowly.”

He watched Harasawa strip without much expression, just observing, looking at Harasawa the same way he had looked at the car, at the house. An appraiser.

Abruptly, Imayoshi stood, ignoring Harasawa completely. Harasawa watched him, unsure what he should do.

Imayoshi opened the closet, apparently looking for something. “Ah, this will do.” He pulled out a silk tie, snapping it between his hands as if testing its strength. He looked at Harasawa. “If it’s agreeable to you,” he said, as if they were discussing business over coffee, “I’m going to tie your hands, and fuck you.” He smiled, and Harasawa wished he could do anything other than give a nod, his pulse thundering through him.

Imayoshi was fast in pulling Harasawa’s hands behind him and looping the tie around his wrists. The knot wasn’t uncomfortable, but neither did it give much when Harasawa strained his hands against them.

Imayoshi pushed him face down into the bed, fingers pausing promisingly over Harasawa’s hair. Harasawa lay very still as Imayoshi’s hands ran down his back, dug into his hips. Harasawa was very aware of Imayoshi getting to his knees behind him, pushing his thighs apart, and yet it still somehow surprised him to feel Imayoshi’s tongue.

“Oh— _fuck!”_ Harasawa’s spine bent, his hands aching to grab onto something, anything to anchor him to earth while this fucking near stranger’s tongue was circling his asshole. Imayoshi’s hands gripped Harasawa’s hips, holding him in place as he took his time, dragging his tongue up and just—just _barely_ pushing in, sending Harasawa into a tailspin of cursing, groaning, trying desperately not to let his feet slide out from under him.

When Imayoshi pulled back it took everything Harasawa had not to let on to his disappointment, his breath already shaky and his cock aching. Imayoshi rummaged through his nightstand, pulling out the lube, and a condom. Harasawa watched him, feeling his skin flush just watching Imayoshi spread it on his fingers.

This was insane, even for him.

Imayoshi anchored a hand in the small of Harasawa’s back, pressing a finger into him, moving torturously slow. Harasawa was making awful sounds, humiliating sounds as Imayoshi pressed in a second finger, long, slow strokes pushing him past some wall of self-control, so that Harasawa was begging for it. Imayoshi smiled, three fingers in Harasawa’s ass, and unbuckled his belt with one hand.

The sound alone made every muscle in Harasawa’s shoulders tense. Imayoshi made hardly more than a sigh pushing into him, his hips flush against Harasawa’s.

Imayoshi reached up to Harasawa’s hair again, digging deep, pulling his head up so that Harasawa couldn’t even try to hide the ragged mess he was.

Imayoshi’s free hand slid around to grasp Harasawa’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, not giving Harasawa any time to catch his breath, to hold himself together. Imayoshi hummed something into his ear, and Harasawa couldn’t make out quite what it was, but the sound of Imayoshi’s voice alone was making him dizzy, pushing him further.

Harasawa came with a choked sound, his knees giving out and his weight falling against the bed, his whole body shaking.

Imayoshi thrust into him maybe half a dozen more times before he arched over Harasawa, letting out a breath. Maybe Harasawa saw a quiver in Imayoshi’s arms—he wasn’t sure.

Imayoshi pulled back and untied Harasawa’s hands, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Harasawa sagged, his knees on the floor and his face still against the bed, not able to work up the strength to move.

He heard the hiss of the shower, and closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath and work out exactly what had just happened.

#

He had a glass of whiskey by the time Imayoshi returned, washed, dried, and only partly dressed. He climbed into the bed in pants and socks, taking the glass right out of Harasawa’s hand for a drink.

“You really piss me off, you know,” Harasawa said, taking the glass back.

“So?” Imayoshi pulled Harasawa’s face around to kiss him, catching his bottom lip with his teeth. Harasawa caught Imayoshi by the nape of the neck, holding him there for the kiss. He went to put the drink of the nightstand—he heard the glass crash to the floor and break but he couldn’t have given less of a fuck.

Harasawa slid down the bed, opening up the front of Imayoshi’s dark jeans, and pulling them down just far enough.

“You really want it, don’t you?” Imayoshi asked.

“Go to hell.” Harasawa was going to blow Imayoshi Shouichi before the night was over, and there was no power in heaven or earth that could stop him.

#

Katsunori’s siblings didn’t ask about the young man—Imayoshi, they thought his name was—who was always seen with him now. They didn’t ask about the lavish gifts Katsunori was always giving him, or what the exact nature of their relationship even was.

They had their suspicions, of course, but what could they do?

It wasn’t as if Katsunori listened to anyone else.

**Author's Note:**

> Special shout-out to my enablers, Jordie and Ryn.


End file.
